Bury Me Six Feet Under
by Juniper Ocean
Summary: Jane's thoughts on her fathers death and why and how much she hated him.


DISCLAIMER: I have no ownership of "American Beauty". The plot and script don not belong to me I just borrowed it for amusement. 

Six Feet Under

By: Juniper

My father was dead.

I looked down at the mahogany coffin and felt… nothing. I was empty and sedated as my eyes traveled over the blue and white carnations that were placed in the center of the polished casket. I wasn't sure what I was supposed to feel. Was I supposed to cry? To feel a wrenching pain so deep that it made me short of breath?

I didn't. Part of me wanted to. It wanted to cry and feel lost and alone and trapped with this pain I was still waiting to feel. But it wasn't forthcoming and by the time the first fist of dirt was thrown onto the casket I had to turn away. It was stupid to keep up the pretense of being upset. It was silly of me to wait to feel something that should have crushed me. I prefer not to pretend.

As I started to walk away, I felt a cold hand cover mine and I looked up. My mother's eyes pleaded with me, silently asking me not to leave. Anger flooded my senses. For one moment I wanted to slap her. Here she stood crying silently, her tears mingling with the ivory powder that coated her cheeks, her lips trembling giving her that lost hopeless look of a child. She looked perfect from her neatly styled hair to her the tips of her "Payless" heals she would never admit to buying. 

It disgusted me.

Even now she couldn't be genuine. Carolyn Burnham was nothing if she was not center stage and playing the newest role she'd decided to take on. And today she was playing the grieving wife. Angela was right about one thing, my mom was fake.

"Let go mother. I'm going home." I respond tonelessly.

Instantly she released her grip and straightened as if I'd reprimanded her. Perhaps I did. For once second her eyes lost their stricken daze and sharpened with dislike and possibly even hatred. I couldn't tell and I had no desire to find out. All I needed to remind myself was the feeling was mutual. 

With that I left the sad little funeral gathering barely noticing the priest's monotone voice drone on as I hurried away. I needed to be alone right now. It was hard for me to admit that he was gone. My dad was far from the best father in the world but I didn't hate him. At least not like I hated my mother. There was difference in the way I felt about them. Where my mother was what she was, phony and pretentious, my father on the other hand, had once been cool. He was right, at one time we were pals. 

It seems so long ago now, I realize, as I walk down Primrose Boulevard. To my left is the small playground he used to take me to as a child. My gaze wanders over the still swings and time stops. The image blurs, yesterday begins to replace today, and I see myself five years old and squealing with delight as he pushes me back and forth over and over. I can see his smile. It was a sweet smile. There was no hidden annoyance or mild sarcasm to it. And his brown eyes sparkled with humor and life, not weary resignation.

Then like pages out of a book, one by one I'm assailed with memories I'd shoved away. Things I didn't want to remember surfaced sending me reeling back in time.

I'm seven years old and we're happily playing tag in the front yard. I'm nine years old sitting in my dark bedroom, huddled under the covers listening as my fucked up parents have a screaming match. I'm ten and I begin to notice the distance between them and how it's beginning to encompass me also. I'm eleven and Dad is sitting on the couch reading the paper. I call his name three times and he doesn't even look up. I'm twelve and I'm wearing a dress for a school function. I ask him how I look and he automatically says fine even thought I know he hasn't really looked at me. Thirteen, I take the car for a spin around the block in the middle of the night. When I get back they are both waiting for me. Mother is livid and Dad just shrugs, mumbles what sounds like a "don't do that again" and retreats upstairs to continue his sleep…

The memories could continue, each one more painful than the last, but I shove them away refusing to go there. I know what went wrong with us. I can even pinpoint when I stopped being his daughter and became just another face in the monotonous drone of his life. Yet he had the audacity to think that I hated him without good reason. That was such bullshit.

I shake my head in amused anger as I turn the corner to my street. Suddenly I am struck with the memory of lying on Ricky's bed, idly telling him that my father damaged me. Bitter laughter escapes me as I contemplate that conversation. 

__

"Someone should put him out of his misery."

Ricky lowers the camera a little and his lips quirk in a smile. "Do you want me to kill him?"

"Yeah," I say sitting up, "Would you?"

"It will cost you." He counters smiling evilly….

He would have done it. As I look back now I think part of me knew that all along. It was what prompted me to push the thoughts out of my mind a reassure myself by saying I was only joking. But was I? Did I really want him dead? 

I honestly don't know and that frightens me a little. I really didn't care. Even now, Lester Burnham is dead and rotting away six feet under and I know I won't miss him. I won't expect to see him around the house or look at his picture and care that he is out of my life forever. I lost my father a long time ago. Or perhaps I've grown up and realized that I no longer need him, his opinions or his presence to make my life complete. He's a face in the blur of my life that will be erased and forgotten.

It is sad really.

When I finally reach my house I feel emotionally drained. Carefully, almost quietly, I open the front door, drop my house keys on the hall table and make my way up the stairs nearly taking them two at a time. Before I even reach the top of the stairs my bedroom door is thrown open and there is Ricky holding his camera and videotaping my every move. 

I smile, feeling genuine warmth flood my chest as my eyes meet his. There is concern in his dark expression and I know why I love him. Because he's just like me. The scars are there, not the visible ones his father gave him, but the emotional ones that can't be seen by the naked eye. The lack of love formed its markings on our hearts and now we are left with nothing but each other. I know without a doubt that I can depend on him and he can depend on me.

"How are you holding up?" He asks softly as he reached out his free hand toward me.

"Okay," I sigh, closing my fingers around his, "I guess."

Gently he tugs me into the room and I sit beside him on the bed. Looking around I take note of all of our packed belongings and I close my eyes. I should feel something, right?

"Why don't I care?" I ask.

He contemplates my question for a moment and then squeezes my hand affectionately. "You do. You just don't realize it yet."

In my mind I see my Dad, slumped over the kitchen table and lying in his own blood. I don't want to remember him that way. In my heart I know that now that the act is done I do regret wishing him dead. A part of me is pissed at Mr. Fitts for taking my fathers life so carelessly. It is a start but it still leaves me cold and detached. 

Ricky has apologized for his Father's actions. I see the guilt he tries to hide, I feel it in the desperate way he holds me. It's not his fault. Had I not, if only for a moment, entertained his offer of doing the deed himself? Maybe that's where his guilt stems from. I really doesn't matter. 

I glance at the clock on my nightstand. 1:30.

"What time are they coming to pick us up?" I question softly.

"About an hour. Is everything ready to go?"

I nod, resting my head against his shoulder. After Mr. Fitts's arrest two days ago Ricky was able to pack all his things. Friends that he has in New York that are coming to get us and we leave today. My mother knows my plans and thought she pretends to be heartbroken that I would lave her at a time like this I know its only another grand production. Deep down she's glad to be rid of me just as I am glad to get out of her way.

Mrs. Fitts has said nothing. I don't even think she's left her house since they hauled her husband away, handcuffed and humiliated. 

I feel Ricky press a light kiss on my hair and suddenly I don't want to think anymore about this. I just want to be wrapped up in him and the way he makes me feel. Leaning up, I turn his face to mine and catch his lips in a desperate kiss. He responds without hesitation, crushing our lips together so hard our teeth almost collide. 

I let him push me back on the bed. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I gasp as he pulls back for only a moment staring deep into my eyes. 

"I love you Jane."

He loves me. This is the first time he's said it out loud thought he shown me in every other way possible. I'm happy. For the first time since I can remember I'm happy. He loves me. Someone else cares about me. I'm not alone anymore.

I can't help but smile. "I love you too but promise me one thing."

"What?"

"We'll never become them." I whisper, knowing I don't have to elaborate any further.

"We won't." He vows with such conviction and confidence that I can't do anything but believe him. Then he grins. "What we have is beautiful."

I don't say anything more because his body is now proving what his words only confirmed. Through his kisses and caresses neither of us hear my mother enter the house. As we make love I can only give myself up to him and the moment.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I'm still aware of our situation and that there is a good chance we'll be just like them one day but I don't dwell on that. My father is dead and I hope he's happy now. I know I am and will be as long as I never feel alone again.

*Authors Note*

Hehehehe… this was a great movie. Really fucked up in a sense but maybe I'm just weird because I can relate. The picture perfect dysfunctional middle class american family. I think if you look at your life well enough we've all been there at one point or another. I still think Jane and Ricky's demented yet sweet relationship rocks. I can't help it. I find it touching with its twisted charm and psychotic mental dependency. 

Hail to the freaks! 


End file.
